I wrote a blog once. It was about how “blog” isn’t a word, and neither is “texted.” But what makes a word a word? Is not “dinklefink” a word? I said it. I could tell you that it means “an unhappy person.” Is the fundamental use of our language based on such rigid rules that so undermine my creative process? The inhibitive nature of this limited lexicon robs the interlocutor of the freedom expression. I need a word that aptly describes the emergence of a blade of grass from the ground. I need to encompass an emotion of rebirth coupled with a sense of accomplishment embodied in the spirit of natural. I need a word. I need “troke.” Troke is like when a trumpet emits a sound, a sound so beautiful a symphony couldn’t capture its grace. I am desperate troke, not because I lack that experience, but because I have it. And I have no way to describe it. I ran out of ways to say I love you. My love letters became trite and cliché, wrought with emotion but void of expression. This love trokes from my heart like heat from a fire, an impossibly intimate relation.

I love you Bri.